Not Time Yet

This beautiful picture was created for me by

Steve, The Unknown Gnome

Thanks so much, Steve!

We were traveling together

when you took the turning

where the Disappeared go,

and are seen no more.

I could not follow. The way was barred.

Still, I continued walking,

carrying your soul with me

in a small wooden box,

hidden under my cape,

held close to my heart.

When I tire, and falter, 

am tempted to turn back,

I can hear you thumping inside your box.

You will not let me 

abandon the journey.

(Asleep, she found herself 

crossing a barren desert.

There was a river ahead,

and she could hear voices, singing,

coming around the bend.

They were coming to get her,

but then she came back into her body.

Not time, yet.)

Death is a river, turbulent, roaring

through time-worn rock-walled chasms

green with weeping.

It dashes our brains out on the rocks

so the eagles may feed,

then settles us, lighter and relieved 

of our earthly burden,

in rippled ponds along the shore,

where beaver and wolves

may find us.

I will meet you there

at twilight

on the last day.

At midnight, a ghostly specter

glides mistily along the shore.

She is beckoning,

but I pretend that I am blind.

She is calling.

I pantomime that I am deaf

and cannot hear.

Not time, yet.

These words are a pathway

between the time when you were here

and now.

They are as full of your absence

as my heart. 

I am still traveling.

You always did go before me on the path.

I am getting just a little closer.

Not time, yet. Not yet.

One from 2014 for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - where there is always good reading on a Sunday morning.

We Have Forgotten

bibliotecapleyades.net

We have forgotten
that the War to End All Wars
was supposed to end all war.

We have forgotten
that peace cannot be won
by hatred and killing,
but only by love and unity.

We have forgotten
that we are made of stardust,
and come from beauty and mystery.

We have forgotten 
that a blue true dream of sky
is all we need to be truly happy.

We have forgotten
that in our cellular and collective memory
is the mindfulness of peace:
a swirling glory of stars
on one of which, blue and green,
a race of humans evolved,
raising their eyes in wonder to the skies,
eating roots and berries,
living in harmony with the land
and each other,
beasts and humans
helping each other learn to live together.

We have forgotten
that, in our heart of hearts,
and in our dream of dreams,
this is
who we truly are.

for the wonderful prompt at dVerse: How We Forget. If you have not visited the site and watched this video of a poet, Loyce Gayo,  speaking her deepest truth, please dont miss it. It is ASTONISHING.

I Wake Slowly

I wake slowly into my old age,

into my room full of books and morning tea,

into my yard full of horses and dogs 

and trees and blue sky.

My door stays open to birdsong

and the cooling  breezes of autumn.

Dogs wander in and out, with loving eyes 

and lolling tongues.

I breathe in this morning 

of my inevitable evening,

grateful before nightfall for the many gifts

of being alive on the planet.

I relish fall as if it is my last,

aware that winter's icy blasts 

will surely follow,

that snow and ice will cover

the summer garden.

Outside, busy, hurried life swoops by.

Inside, the silence is thick and syrupy,

dripping into my psyche

like a single drop

into a pool that ripples outwards

towards the sea that is you,

on the other side of this screen.

I travel nowhere, yet visit the world

by tapping the magic keys of my kingdom.

Each day is a gift, whose slow pace I relish.

I only want more and more

of these long, slow,

sweetly meandering  days.

Boredom is never an issue.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Boredom

Beauty

That first step took me through lake country: apple blossoms on soft-scented summer evenings, bullrushes and weeping willow, lake-scent and whisperings engraved on my heart. It took a thousand miles to bring me home, to the forest floor, Grandfather Cedar draped with old man's beard, eagle and murrelet, sea and sky, a wonderment of beauty wherever my eyes fell, mist-mountain magic, joy in my heart singing, nature the lover of my life. I stood on the shore and turned in a circle: beauty, in every direction, etched forever in my mind. 

from first step to last
eyes wide with wonder
such a long journey

A haibun for Dverse's Haibun Monday

Refugee

image of Aylan Kurdi

by Naser Jafari on Twitter

Hope filled the boat that did not float

(their chance of safety so remote)

It spilled those fleeing bombs and pain

into the sea and back again

No soft and pillowed childhood bed

cradled his small and downy head

only the shore, where he lay dead

his lifetime short and briefly shed

No teddy bear, no gentle touch

his life so brief, he suffered much

When his small image came to light

he woke  us, finally, to his plight

by entering his eternal night

With his father's tears he is laid to rest

in a world full of the dispossessed

small wayfarer  rode the silver foam

had to leave this life to find a home

For those who follow, make the beds

with soft cloth for their downy heads

Let us set the table, draw them in

create a world that peace can win

Like everyone, the photo of that small three year old on the shore seared itself into my consciousness. I thought of Sebastian - any of our  children - lying there. The image seems to have finally woken the world to the plight of the Syrian refugees. More than half of the population is in urgent need of humanitarian relief, and more than fifty percent are children.

How, as a species, can humans possibly think that war "wins" anyone anything but suffering?

for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Morning

Somass River, Port Alberni

photo by Jo at Majority of Two blog

clouds draping  misty mountains

steam rising in the meadow

horses' feet squish pleasantly 

in unaccustomed mud

from light rain heaven-sent

to parched earth

green shoots sprouting against relentless brown

mourning doves cooing

river rising up its banks

swans swooning in rippling eddies

morning sun peeking between  pervasive cloud,

and a patch of blue sky framed in gray

drawn back like a curtain

on the new day, rising

a tonal poem for Hedgewitch at Real Toads' Fireblossom Friday

Wild Woman Takes a Leap

There came a moment in time,

trekking the dutiful path

of Obligation and Responsibility,

when I felt my soul shriveling inside me,

felt like I existed only to work,

and bring brown paper bags of groceries

in the front door.

It had been too long.

I knew I had to choose: 
to follow my soul's calling

or learn to live without a dream.

And I knew I couldn't live 
without a dream.

I gathered my courage

and made a mighty, prodigious leap,

landing just right, at sunset,

beside the sea,

a whale diving and surfacing in the bay.

Since that one, terrified, 

but knowing-I-had-no-choice,

trusting-the-Universe moment,

I have never been the same.

I became the Wild Woman 

I was always meant to be.

- for my prompt at Poets United's Midweek Motif: watershed moments, a defining moment in time, after which one is never the same. That decision divided life before and life after. When I landed on that shore, I felt I had finally come home - to be the person I was meant to be. It was the best decision I ever made. Those were the most joyous years of my life. True, unequaled happiness. 

I only had ten  years there, in my heart's home, and have missed it every day since. But at least I had those ten spectacular years, when joy was my daily companion, in love with the beauty of the wild west coast.

I am working Wednesday, my friends, so will catch you at Midweek Motif as I am able to, in the evening at the latest. Wednesday! Hump Day! Yippee!